Practically Perfect
by nattherat
Summary: Elizabeth Branagh and Count Dracula share a strange indefinable relationship. Sometimes allies, sometimes friends and always a little something more beneath the surface. This is a series of drabbles and ficlets exploring their interactions.
1. S1E2: From the Start

That Branagh woman was an infernal creature. She waltzes into his palace of doom like she owns the place – the den of the Count Dracula no less - she reports him to the local school so they can send their peasant mobs after him simply because he doesn't allow his children to mingle with their kind, and now she has the **audacity **to coo at him through the window of the hearse spouting rot about him changing his mind as if _she_ didn't have anything to do with it. His mind was full of images then, visions of tearing her throat open, acting like a fledgling and making a mess of the kill, just to set an example to all the other noisy loathsome breathers in the town. His nails scraped the window over the top of her image as he imagined it and his breath came thick and heavy as he saw in his mind himself tasting her blood.

He ordered Renfield to drive them home. He could not carry out that fantasy in daylight, but an even better plot for revenge began to form in his mind.

It failed. It failed spectacularly. He drew the Branagh male around, he cast him into the Slime Pit, and when Mrs. Branagh came along he claimed he hadn't seen her husband, and prepared to bare his fangs to sink into that pretty little neck. Then Mr. Branagh emerged from the Slime Pit. Having actually removed the cause of the vile odour. _Then_ Mrs. Branagh gifted him with food and drink she had made for him even after he accused her of wronging him by reporting him to the school without any real evidence. This was confusing and nauseating and not how feuds worked. He'd rather the simple peasant mob, either they cower in fear and flee from you, or they foolishly attack you and you kill them. They don't barge into your castle and clean it or bring you food of their own will or try to make conversation with you. In fact yes, the peasant mob is much more preferable and they are going back to Transylvania right away. Ingrid spouts something in his ear but he has no interest in her, all he can think about is how awful it will be the next time those Branagh breathers decide to tumble into his lair. What will the gifts be next time? Ribbons? Flowers? Puppies? Then they'll talk to him! Nothing more disturbing than your meal having a complete conversation with you, it really makes him lose his appetite. They'll simply have to go.

Living in a town that brings the inner evil out of your wimpire son however, is not one to desert so easily. Perhaps he can deal with terribly pleasant neighbours for the sake of Vladdy.

At least the neighbours aren't vampire slayers.


	2. S1E3: A Disturbing Thought

"Love her...? Whatever gave you that idea?"

What he felt for Magda went beyond anything any single word could describe. She was the center of the universe, she represented a creature of the night in its fullest glory, she was the very definition of vampire. A deathly cold exquisitely beautiful creature as pale as the moon and dark as the night. A treacherous witch ready to drive a stake through his heart at any time, especially when it benefited her most. The greatest night hunter he'd ever known, her kills were graceful and efficient, and always drawn out for maximum torture. They'd hunt together often, and always he trailed behind a little, watching her in awe as she carried out her work. Every dead muscle in her body would tense as she closed in on the prey, ready to spring, ready to coil herself around the juicy peasant, and he'd watch every moment of it like a hawk, drinking in that incredible sight.

Elizabeth, was just the opposite. A cheery pleasant colourful woman with the kindest heart he'd ever known. How could he ever love that?

..._Why did he think of Elizabeth?_


	3. S1E9: Unbecoming of a Vampire

***Ah, sorry, I forgot to post this one when I wrote it! Just like the others, this coincides with an episode. Series 1 episode 9 to be exact. Enjoy!***

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Ahh, time stopped a little then, when she appeared before him dressed in something far more akin to his homeland than her usual attire. The dark golden robes following her figure far more closely than usual, and the collar framing her beautiful white neck. For a fleeting moment, he caught a glimpse of a vampiric queen. Far from the first time since he had met Elizabeth Branagh, he once again envisioned his fangs breaking that delicate skin, imagined that sharp intake of breath that would emit from her. This was the first time however, that his fantasy took on a decidedly more gentle tone. His fingers traced the graceful curve of her shoulders in greeting, and he took in her scent carefully, savouring it and tasting it. He wanted to nip at the skin playfully, then perhaps...perhaps he would kiss her. _Kiss _her? The opportunity was lost though, as she politely stepped away from him with her usual sweet smile, but her eyes said a little something more. Knowing perhaps, he wasn't sure - he gazed into them a while longer as he tried to ascertain what had crossed her mind. Unsuccessful, he raised her hand to his lips and led her to his study.

"Welcome to my inner sanctum Mrs. Branagh,"

"Oh Mr. Count, I _am_ honoured!"

He picked up the glasses, one containing his blood, the other a harmless red liquid thickened to the same likeness with milk. Waste not, want not, after all. The plot he had concocted required Elizabeth to drink his blood in a ritual, thus becoming bound to him. Her world would only include him and she would obey his every word.

He held out the glass to her.

She would follow his every command and never even think without his say. Her conversation would be a mirror of his own, designed to affirm his position of power and flatter his own self.

His eyes glowed yellow as he dulled her perception to his will.

Elizabeth Branagh would no longer be Elizabeth Branagh.

He shifted his feet quickly and held out the opposite glass to her.  
Later, he could not fathom exactly why, or at least, he could not justify it in terms of what he should do as a vampire. He could, should have handed her the ritual glass. He could and should have drained her of her blood the moment he met her. He didn't, he had inexplicably spared her at every turn and now, in the moment she was most at his mercy still he did not strike.

Perhaps it was Magda's clothing, perhaps it was the lack of otherwise intelligent adult company, or almost unthinkably, perhaps he was growing as soft as his son and beginning to accept breathers as friends.

...Elizabeth is...his _friend_?


	4. S2E8: Sheeps Blood

"Ah, Vlad, Ingrid, now there's no need to worry; your father got himself locked in a...what was it again?"

The Counts grin grew wider at her deception, she knew exactly what had happened, and when she had come into his crypt summoned by his shouts, he heard her scolding him through the coffin as she searched for the key to free him. How on earth did he get himself in these situations - if this was Vlad or Ingrid's doing, they're getting just as devious as he is and they grow up so quickly don't they. His sulk had lasted mere moments when she opened the lid, as her expression held no malice, no anger and she smiled sweetly at him,

"There you are Mr. Count," He hadn't said a word back, there was no real need for it. Instead he found himself smiling, genuinely smiling at her. He was grateful and not just for the help escaping his own coffin, she knew that. As they walked up the stairs to return to the throne room, Elisabeth turned to him, her cheerful expression lined with something a little more devious,

"Do you know Mr. Count, I can't for the life of me remember what you were locked in to...how strange."

He gave a hearty laugh, she had already figured out a way for him to save face in front of his children, when it hadn't even crossed his mind yet.

"I hypnotised her so she wouldn't remember," he claimed in his son's ear, "I'm so lucky Elisabeth happened to drop by."

As she handed him the tea she had brewed for him, the familiar scent of blood reached his nostrils. He looked down, within the cup the liquid was reddened and sweet. His expression softened and he smiled again, eternally grateful for Elisabeth's daily visit to the castle. Sheep's blood.


	5. S2E13: In the End

**Thank you ever so much for the great reviews everyone! I'm really glad you're enjoying these drabbles, even if I only get around to updating them kind of rarely. I would like to say that I'm very sorry I'm doing these in the wrong order. They're supposed to go in chronological order since I am making a bit of a sub-story with these things, but I just happen to have written them a bit odd. This one is the very last one altogether. Enjoy, and please review!**

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When had this happened, when had he turned from the invincible cold and detached Count Dracula into the meek and desperately...in love...wreck of a vampire he was now? He had not hunted for months and months, living on sheep's blood brought to him by Elizabeth and the warmth her smile brought. When had he begun to yearn to breathe again? When had he begun to forsake the night, staying awake during the day and waiting for her to visit him? When had he begun donning that ridiculous umbrella and walking about in_ daylight_ just to see her? At which moment in his undeath had he _fallen in love with her_? And why, of all things, of all of the hundreds of soft breather emotions he could possibly contract, did it have to be that one? And why didn't it make him feel as weak and helpless as he always thought it would? Why did it have the power to tame the reflection, to tame the anger, to tame the rage and the thirst and the hatred he had carried around with him for centuries? Why was it that when he thought of the prospect of drinking tea with Elizabeth now, he was filled with a calm peace and happiness instead of disgust and anger. Why was it that the idea of killing her no longer held any satisfaction in his mind. Why was it that the idea of her death saddened him so much.

And now, when he finds himself leaning forward and placing his lips very gently to hers knowing that he has just upset the entire vampiric order with one action, he feels no repulsion or sense of wrong, no uncontrollable blood-lust or violent anger, no wish to be cruel or violating. It feels _nice_ and he smiles against her mouth sighing softly. He knows when he meets her eyes again, he knows he will see regret there. He knows she loves Graham, knows she is bound to him through marriage. He knows that when he hears his given name slip from her lips in a ragged breath, it will be the last time he hears it spoken from her. He knows that when she pulls away, averting her eyes for the first time in their acquaintance, he has overstepped their fragile boundary. He knows that he has caused the Earth to turn upside down, then the right way up again. He knows that this cannot continue.

A month later during the search for the new Grand High Vampire, he restores the natural order and leaves her and her family to the mercy of his invited guests.

This is the way it is supposed to be.

Vampires and Breathers do not mix.

Never have.

Never will.

Never.


	6. EXTRA: Chance Encounter

This peasant-free diet, he had decided, did not work for him at all. He swooped above the paths again, his body weak and aching from hunger and his sight strained from effort. The scent of breathers surrounded him, his lack of strength making it hard to separate their threads from each other, he could not hone in on a single one. His thirst drove him - he hadn't fed for months, he was drained and he was tired and he needed sustenance immediately. Careering between the trees, he sought out a breather, anyone, anything. One, there, female, right ahead. Her scent invaded his senses - his world was reduced to her and only her and he needed her life's blood _right now._ He swooped towards her dark shape framed in the moonlight and his collision was a flurry of black and green and red and yellow. He had her now, trapped between his own body and the cold hard ground - he dipped his head immediately to her neck savouring the last moments of her life, grazing the soft skin with his fangs and laboured breath. Beneath him the prey gave a short-lived struggle, her hands, those hands, those perfectly delicate fingers weakly tugging at his cape, his collar, resting on his shoulders. Her body perfectly formed, brimming with life, teeming with blood, pinned beneath his own, their forms moulding together in that perfect moment before predator consumes prey. Her intoxicating scent, a lively fragrance with an underlying hint of spice that threatened to send him over the edge on that alone. Something between a growl and a moan erupted from him against her succulent throat and in those few moments he hears her beautiful melodious voice in his ear;

'_Whatever_ could you be doing out here this late Mr. Count?'

It takes a good moment for his senses and rationality to return and he raises his head to be met with Mrs. Branagh's soft eyes, her lips curved into that ever-knowing smile of hers.


End file.
